


Nocturnal Rites

by scrapbullet



Series: Teen Wolf Drabbles [7]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Dubious Consent, Gore, M/M, Mindfuck, Stiles is a little bit cracked here but I'm not sorry, neither is Peter, sigils and blood and gore oh my
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-03
Updated: 2012-10-03
Packaged: 2017-11-15 13:48:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 455
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/527976
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scrapbullet/pseuds/scrapbullet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The boy that runs with wolves does not rest easy in his bed, not when he yearns to join them.</p>
<p>No, not them. Him. Just him, and although it's been but a few nights since Peter had parted flesh like the red sea Stiles can't stop thinking, dreaming, becoming-</p>
<p>Becoming other-</p>
<p>
  <i>Come to me. Dig down deep, past the mud and ash and excrement, find me.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Nocturnal Rites

**Author's Note:**

  * For [poemwithnorhyme](https://archiveofourown.org/users/poemwithnorhyme/gifts).



He is split open like red fruit, viscera wet and gleaming where his soft insides nestle against one another, safe-and-sound, squashed in tight with not a single space between. The rope of intestines twined within the abdomen is slick to the touch, yielding beneath his fingers, but he's careful, so careful, lest he rupture delicate organs and cause further injury.

Peter is not yet living, and it's such a shame.

What is a spell but mere belief? Belief like the dripping maws of a man-come-wolf, fangs yellowed and growling deep within the chest like the warm amber liquid his father drinks. Belief like the swollen belly of the moon and the howls of delight that accompany it in the night, when Stiles turns and rests his weary head upon his pillow, listening. 

The boy that runs with wolves does not rest easy in his bed, not when he yearns to join them.

No, not them. Him. Just him, and although it's been but a few nights since Peter had parted flesh like the red sea Stiles can't stop thinking, dreaming, becoming-

Becoming other-

_Come to me. Dig down deep, past the mud and ash and excrement, find me._

Below his fingers Peter becomes alive. Sigils, drawn into Stiles' very skin, lends power to his will; rise, rise because I want you to, because I _need_ you to, because I _need_ -

Fingers retract from within the bloody chamber, and flesh knits to flesh, once grey and dead now pink under old skin, burnt and blackened, under old blood, old life. Peter's chest rises and falls, and Stiles kisses his mouth, tasting the stale and smoky air that stagnated within deflated lungs. 

Peter does not return his entreaty. It doesn't wound Stiles, no, not when Peter cups his bloody hands and licks at the thin web between his fingers, sucking at the knuckles until the scrape of teeth makes Stiles wince. Who needs a kiss when there is this? 

Who needs a kiss, a kiss of lips and mouths like a two-legged human, like _civilised people_ , when the Wolf has other ways of showing affection?

"I chose well," Peter says, and his breath is rancid, chapped lips pulling upwards into a mockery of a smile. His teeth are smeared with blood and soot, but Stiles doesn't mind, doesn't mind at all, nuzzling against Peter's cheek like a whimpering dog. "You're such a good boy."

Stiles hums, pleased. The praise makes his face flush.

He dons red, then - like the gore caked under his fingernails - and Peter follows on steady feet, nude, hair slicked back with sweat and soil; Lamb and Wolf.

Later, when the pack howls at the moon Stiles doesn't feel so alone.

He doesn't mourn.


End file.
